


Vulnerability

by ziskandra



Series: Calm Before the Storm [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Slurs, F/F, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziskandra/pseuds/ziskandra
Summary: In the weeks following the Qunari invasion, Isabela and Hawke settle into a routine that cannot last.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Isabela
Series: Calm Before the Storm [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022938
Comments: 12
Kudos: 27
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2020





	Vulnerability

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eightbots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eightbots/gifts).



Hawke had not set out to forestall a war, but if living in Kirkwall had taught her anything it was that intentions were irrelevant. She had prevented a Qunari invasion, and for that, the title of Champion was bestowed upon her, heavier than any armor she’d ever worn. It seeped into her skin and dug into her bones, putting down roots.

Not even a skilled and dedicated lover can remove Hawke’s new burdens, and it isn’t for Isabela’s lack of trying, because she _is_. It’s been a scant two weeks since the viscount’s death, the battle with the Arishok, and Hawke’s gut still stings with the memory of her adversary’s blade. Even all of Anders’s spells and poultices could not completely heal the damage dealt, and he’d warned her, warned them, not to ‘overdo it’, whatever that meant.

To be honest, Hawke’s not really _doing_ anything right now. At least, nothing but her damned best to forget, or to remember who she was before the Blight, before she and her family had sought their refuge in the Free Marches.

She hasn’t asked, but Hawke’s certain Isabela’s trying to forget something, too. Then again, Isabela is always running away from something, even when she’s right here, three fingers shoved up Hawke’s cunt as she’s pinned against the wall just outside the Hanged Man.

“ _Champion_ ,” Isabela breathes against Hawke’s ear, thumb rubbing circles against her clit, “What would the people say, if they saw their hero being fucked in a back alley like a Lowtown whore?”

Hawke laughs, because it’s difficult to string coherent thoughts together when Isabela’s touching her like this, when the only words which spring to mind are ‘harder’ and ‘more’. She cants her hips against her lover’s hand, seeking extra pressure. “I imagine,” she starts, sucking in a deep breath between hollowed cheeks as Isabela’s nimble fingers curl deep inside her, setting her nerves aflame like the world’s most basic form of magic. “I imagine,” she tries once more, only to be interrupted by the pulsing of her cunt as Isabela ekes out yet another orgasm from her and all her focus is switched to the shaking of her knees, a desperate attempt to stay upwards as she comes. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ” Whatever else she has to say, whatever other noises she might make, are drowned out as Isabela clamps her free hand over her mouth, muffling her sounds.

Smiling, Isabela’s fingers still but don’t withdraw from Hawke as she rides out the aftermath of her climax. Leaning in close towards Hawke’s ear, Isabela’s breath is hot and heavy against her skin when she finishes off Hawke’s sentence for her. “I imagine they might think you’d missed your calling.”

Hawke can’t help but laugh again, even as Isabela’s fingers leave her cunt, leaving nothing behind but slick wet emptiness, a desperate craving to be filled once more. “It would be a simpler life,” she says, her voice still shaky as she straightens up against the tavern’s wall. “I don’t suppose it’s too late to change tack now?”

The curve of Isabela’s smile flattens slightly, and Hawke almost regrets alluding to the events of the last few weeks. It’s not that they almost died – they’re mercenaries, more or less, death is an occupational hazard. It’s everything that had come after: the weight and expectations of the entire city on Hawke’s shoulders, Isabela’s desire and inability to run away properly.

Every time they’ve fucked since then, every time they’d fallen asleep together, despite their agreement not to do such a thing, not to bring _feelings_ into their arrangement, Hawke dreads not waking up next to Isabela in the morning.

Isabela’s not left yet, but it’s only a matter of time. 

Pressing a firm and hungry kiss to the corner of Hawke’s mouth, heavy with the promise of _more_ , Isabela says, “You could come with me, you know.” The rest goes unsaid but Hawke is more than capable of filling in the blanks. _When I leave._

“I know,” Hawke agrees simply, leaving her own regrets unvoiced in the cool night air. She could run away with Isabela, steal a rickety old boat, go further up in the Marches or even back to Ferelden, live in a backroom of the Pearl where Isabela had spent so much of her time before and during the Blight.

But Ferelden is no longer Hawke's home. Despite her best wishes, despite her _intentions_ , her home is Kirkwall now, and she its champion. There is nowhere else in this world where she belongs: her family is all gone now, scattered on the wind in the most literal sense of the word, all except sweet Bethany, off with the Grey Wardens, and Uncle Gamlen, who barely counts.

Maker knows she’s not staying in this city for _Gamlen_. It’s everything else she can’t bear to leave.

Even if it means losing Isabela. Isabela, who has all but resorted to begging Hawke to come with her, for them to leave the city together. Hawke doesn’t know what it means, or maybe she does, and they’re just pretending together at this point in their relationship, in their whatever this is. She takes a deep breath and confesses to the empty space to the left of Isabela’s head. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Isabela, busying herself with adjusting her mostly-useless smalls, lifts an eyebrow. “Just what were you hoping to achieve?” she asks.

Hawke’s heart hammers in her chest. The answer is obvious, too obvious, she thinks, but somehow breathing it into life makes her feel too vulnerable, too real. When she speaks, it’s like she’s watching someone else’s lips form the words. “I didn’t want you to die, too.”

Fuck. She hadn’t meant to say any of that, especially the _too_. Hadn’t meant for anyone, especially Isabela, to know just how much her mother’s death had affected her, like she had a damned hope in Thedas of hiding it. Wet warmth pricks at the corner of her eyes and she wills herself not to let the tears spill. She hadn’t cried since before she’d left Ferelden, not since her father had passed away.

And she’s definitely, definitely not interested in crying in front of Isabela, can’t think of a thing worse than Isabela trying to comfort her, again, when they’re just trying to have a bit of fun. When they’re trying to _forget_ the shittiness of the world together.

As it stands, Hawke’s admission must have been too much. Isabela simply stares at her as though she’s grown two heads, pretty full lips a rounded ‘o’ of surprise. After a pause, a moment’s hesitation, Isabela slips her hand in Hawke’s, gives it a gentle tug. “C’mon,” says Isabela, leading Hawke back towards the Hanged Man. “They’re missing us inside.”

Hawke knows that’s a lie as good as any. Maker knows their friends have gotten used to her and Isabela stealing away for all the stolen moments they can get, and after they’ve walked in on them for the first time, they’re pretty good at not following.

But what else do they have in common, Hawke and Isabela, if not an astute affinity for believing their own lies?

This hand-holding business is new, unexpected, and it is with its novelty that Hawke knows, in her bones, that same place where the expectations bestowed upon her have settled in, that Isabela will finally not be by her side in the morning.


End file.
